


A Study in Myopia

by nerdyrose24



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blind Character, Canon Divergence, Developing Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Major Character Injury, POV Multiple, Post-Episode: s04e02 The Lying Detective, Recovery, Slow Burn, Suicidal thoughts (brief), Uncle Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:42:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24455371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerdyrose24/pseuds/nerdyrose24
Summary: John Watson wakes up from a deep and terrifying sleep to a world of perpetual darkness. But Sherlock is there to help. What will happen between them after this and after that line was crossed that day in Baker Street?
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 13
Kudos: 53





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So it's been three years and I'm still not over series 4!! I've wanted to write this ever since the last series came out and I finally got round to it. I sincerely hope I can write more and turn this into a series. In my AU, The Final Problem was John's fever dream, like The Abominable Bride was Sherlock's drug dream. Hope you like it :)

POV Mrs Hudson

"Oh, Sherlock, I do wish you'd come home," Mrs Hudson implored, placing a hand on Sherlock's arm as he came to a stop beside her in the hospital corridor. "Just for an hour, to freshen up," she tried. She winced as she looked up at Sherlock, he was haggard, as he was when he was sick with the drugs, except minus the beard. It had only been a week or so since Sherlock had come out of the hospital himself after that nasty business with Culverton Smith and he had only just started to look like himself again. Now, he was worse than ever. And he smelled. Bad. At least with the drugs, he would stop and take a bath. Mrs Hudson had hoped that, maybe, if she came up and offered to spend the night, then he might go home for a while. He was no use to John Watson like this. 

Sherlock looked at her, for a minute, with his bloodshot eyes, before his gaze lowered to the floor, and his lips trembled. "No, no, I have to be there, don't you see?" he exclaimed. Then his eyes were darting all over, as if someone was watching him, ready to shoot. 

He was manic, Mrs Hudson thought. 

Sherlock turned swiftly and started again down the corridor. 

"Sherlock! Has he woken up yet?" she called after him. No answer. She saw him enter to hospital room, once again. Manic. "I'll take that as a no," she said to herself, before making her own way down to the room. She stopped just by the door and leaned against the frame. Peering inside, she saw poor John, lying there, bandage wrapped around his head. Her heart broke slightly at the thought that, underneath it, one eye was damaged beyond repair by that therapist's gunshot, and the other - no one would know until he tried to open it. Her thoughts turned to poor Rosie, and, although it was an unbearably sad situation, she couldn't help thinking that the little girl was lucky to have a support network around her.

"Alright, Mrs H?" came a rough bark from behind her, startling her. 

With a hand clutching her heart, she turned and saw Lestrade coming over, with two cups of coffee, no doubt. "Oooh, you made me jump!" she exclaimed. A smile played briefly on both of their faces. It soon faded. 

"It's a sorry situation, this, isn't it?" Lestrade muttered. 

"Yes," Mrs Hudson answered, absently. She was looking at Sherlock through the glass. He was a complete mess, sitting there with manic, jiggling legs and a trembling face. Although, he had been strong, so far. There was no hint of any substances or cigarettes, even, besides excessive coffee drinking, which one may excuse, she thought. How proud she was of him. This feeling soon faded, however, and was replaced with rage, when she remembered the police inspector stood next to her. "Have you caught her yet" she asked, suddenly.

"Err, yes, we have, actually. Although, a load of government officials swooped in and carted her off to some secret prison. Top secret. Even I wasn't allowed to know." He took a sip of his coffee.

"Oh, thank goodness. You know, if you hadn't caught her, I would have taught her a lesson," the landlady replied. When she saw the bemused expression on the man's face she added: "I do know where Sherlock keeps his gun." 

"Oh, right." Lestrade looked uncomfortable, and an awkward few minutes passed in silence. A phone buzzed. "Could you take this?" he asked, handing her the coffee cup and reaching into his pocket. She took it and watched as his expression changed as he read the message on the screen. "Right, I've got to go. Work," he explained. "Could you give that to him and, um, give him my best would you?" 

"Of course," she said.

"As he reached the door, Mrs Hudson remembered something very important. As if on cue, Lestrade stopped and shouted back: "I told Sherlock. About Euros. Don't know if he actually registered it, but I daresay as soon as his brother gets in touch he'll know much more than I do." 

"Ok, thank you dear." 

"Bye, then." 

"Bye." She smiled, and turned her attention back to the room, feeling concerned and keeping her hand over her heart as she watched her Baker Street boys.

***

POV John Watson

When John Watson wakes up, everything is black. He thinks that he must be dead. He does so with a start, that feeling of inertia one feels after a fitful night’s sleep. Although, his sleep was deep and terrifying. He can still feel his heart pounding in his chest, as it did during his dreams of the prison, of Euros and of Sherlock. Sherlock. His hear… was still pounding. Could it be? Yes. He could feel the soft surface beneath him, and, with titanic effort, he could just about wriggle his fingers. Also, as he tries to open his eyes, he feels a searing pain going through his right eye and something, reluctant, about the left one - such pain. Not dead, he thinks. On one of his fingers was a pulse oximeter and there was a smell that was distinctly – hospital. 

This is bad, he thinks. I can’t see a thing. 

The prison, that was definitely a dream. It was too bizarre, even for him and Sherlock. Before then, there had been crying in Baker Street and Sherlock’s warm hand on the back of his neck. Then the therapist – she had shot him – right through the eye. 

I’m blind, he thinks. Jesus Christ, I’m blind. Rosie, poor Rosie. Fuck. Once again, he was struck by that wave of emotion; he felt weak, useless, a failure. Maybe, if I lie here and never move again, they’ll take me for brain dead and pull the plug. He feels desperate. 

He sniffs, in spite of himself. Instantly, there was movement close by. John noticed the other smell in the room, stale and cloaked by the smell of the hospital, but familiar. It smelt like cups of tea and a musty old flat. Home. Sherlock. 

“John.” The name hangs in the air like a question; he knows John is awake. A large hand comes to rest tentatively on his shoulder, not shaking or squeezing, but there. 

“I – I can’t see – anything,” he wheezes out. He was breaking apart, a cliff face crumbling into a deep, dark sea. 

Another shift, and there was a dip in the bed. They were so close now. Those long fingers find the back of his neck once again and John is lifted, slowly, until their bodies meet. John rests his head on the shoulder of Sherlock’s shirt and a second hand comes to gently push his back forwards, away from the wires still tethering him to the bed. “I know.” The voice was deep and low like it always had been, but closer, like never before. 

John’s body shook with the tears that wouldn’t come. “Sshh.” It was like honey pouring directly down his ear, causing his spine to shiver. He was too vulnerable, too exposed. Surely, it had never been more obvious than it was right now. How could he hide this feeling he had in a perpetual darkness? “Sshh.” 

“I – I’m blind,” John breathes. 

The hold becomes more forceful, determined. “I know, but, John – Y-You can hear me, yes?” Oh, God, yes, he thinks, nodding. The hand on his back applied a gentle pressure – reassurance. “And you can feel me?” 

“Yes,” he answers.

“And surely you can smell me because I haven’t showered for three days.” Sherlock chuckles, but it’s rather a rattle of shaky nerves. 

“Yes,” John answers. 

He was released and lowered back down onto the bed. A hand stayed on his shoulder. Contact, he thinks. They had never been so intimate. There was something blossoming between them. A line was crossed, that day in Baker Street. 

“Well then, Watson. Laws of science have determined that you are most definitely alive.” Sherlock punctuates each of the words at the end, his voice now steady, assured. “Despite your therapist’s best efforts,” he continues with a voice imbued with anger and bitterness. “Mycroft will take care of her, don’t you worry. It’s up to me to take care of you. Return the favour, after all these years.” 

John feels the sting of guilt, recalling the feel of his own fist connecting with Sherlock’s face, over and over again, until he lay on the floor, bloody. He would never get that image out of his head. 

“It’s going to be alright,” Sherlock sooths, and John feels himself falling back into the dark void of sleep.

***

POV Mrs Hudson

As John Watson began to stir, Mrs Hudson breathed a heavy sigh of relief. “Oh, thank goodness,” she said to herself. Her heart swelled with pride once more as she watched Sherlock spring into action, immediately reassuring John in a distinctly un-sociopathic manner. Yes, he had come a long way, despite his recent relapse. She mused to herself that this may just be the thing to finally bring those two together as they always should have been. They both had changed, learned a little something about life that can only be taught through experience and, sometimes, sorrow: life is short, and you must hold onto whatever makes you happy. As such, she decided to give them some privacy; it was beginning to feel a little indecent to watch, especially from behind glass, so she moved away and leaned back against the wall, waiting. 

Eventually, the door opened. Sherlock walked out slowly, stopping after a few steps, and breathing deeply. “Sherlock?” Mrs Hudson prompted as she came nearer to him. 

He turned, face relaxing into a wearied but relieved expression. “He woke up,” he said simply, smiling slightly. 

“Oh, Sherlock!” she cried, closing the gap between them, and putting her hands on his arms. He bent down and hugged her. He had never been a tactile person. “I am so happy for you both,” she continued. 

“He’s terrified,” Sherlock answered in a low voice, pulling away. 

“Did you tell him what the doctor said? About his other eye possibly regaining some vision?” she questioned. 

He shook his head. “It was all too much, too raw. He needs to process everything first,” he explained. “The doctor can tell him, when he wakes up again.” 

“Has he gone back to sleep? Oh, poor soul, he must be exhausted.” 

“Yes. I might, uh, go to Baker Street and get a change of clothes. If you could stay here?” Sherlock said. 

“Of course, dear. Take as long as you need. I wasn’t going to say anything, but there’s a reason I’m the only one stood in the corridor with you,” Mrs Hudson replied. Sherlock brows furrowed; lips began to form a question. “You smell,” she clarified. 

Face showing clear offence, Sherlock turned and made his way down the corridor. He stopped with his hand on the door. “I’ll get some for John, too,” he called and then he was gone. Mrs Hudson looked back into the room at John sleeping. Even with the bandage around his head, she could see the worry lines on his forehead and knew his rest was not peaceful. The only way they could get through this is together, she thought. In her heart, she hoped this could be a start of a new chapter for them both.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is haunted by what he has seen and he can't forget. He hopes he can take John home and make it better.

Sherlock’s POV

To the outside world, he was doing better. Most days John sat upright in the hospital bed, was alert at all times, despite the heavy and somniferous pain killers, and talked a little. Just a little. It was enough to keep up the illusion. He appeared to listen, and he answered when he was spoken to. He cooperated with the doctors and nurses and reacted, albeit mildly, when Lestrade came in and told him about Euros. Mycroft had “taken care of the situation” and she would never hurt them again. Too late, Sherlock reflected.

The wrap around his head had been removed a couple of days ago. A thin black patch concealed the healing wound of John’s left eye, while the other was covered in white medicinal plasters – an infection. Sherlock remembered feeling outraged upon learning of this. “How could he pick up an infection in a hospital? You’re supposed to make him better!” He winced at the memory. The chances of picking up an infection in a hospital are high – he knew this. Looking over at John now, illuminated slightly by moonlight from the window, he remembered that it wasn’t the only time he hadn’t known how to help.

It was a brilliant charade of John's, oh yes, but Sherlock knew because he saw. There were intermittent tremors again, coursing down his left arm, and when John moved his shoulder, the phantom pain of the old gunshot wound would contort his face. The worst were the nightmares. 

Although he knew he shouldn’t, Sherlock often stayed the night. He would say goodnight and leave, then head down the corridor to the café where he would eat, drink a coffee, and wait until it was time for the nurses to switch shifts. He came in behind the nurse so John wouldn’t get suspicious at the sound of the door opening and closing without good reason. It was obvious that, with the loss of his sight, he would strain more with his other senses such as hearing. In order for this to work, Sherlock would have to be completely silent. Fortunately, over the years, he had mastered the art of hiding in plain sight. It was important now more than ever. 

The nurse never seemed to mind. Noise wasn’t the only reason he was glad he wasn’t questioned about his actions. For once in his life, Sherlock would not have been able to explain himself. Why did he sit, alert like a cat, by his best friend’s bedside every night, only to watch in silence as said best friend was haunted by night terrors? Answer: because Sherlock had seen, he had been there, and he couldn’t forget.

***

Adrenaline had coursed through Sherlock’s body that day as it always did during the thrill of the chase. Except this wasn’t the fun part and he had learned that overconfidence is a dangerous thing. He shook and trembled with anxiety in the back of the taxicab. No motorcycle today and he couldn’t recall where Mrs Hudson parked her Aston Martin. Either would have been preferable but this was the only available option. It was too damn slow. 

On the way, he called Mycroft and Lestrade: “Something’s happened. I need to get to John.” 

“What’s happened?” they both had asked. 

“Something, something, I know it.” 

“Sherlock, slow down,” Lestrade placated.

“I’m slow enough as it is! I found a piece of paper that Faith left in the flat. She was there and she’s working for Moriarty and now something’s happened.” 

“Sherlock, nothing has happened, I can assure you. James Moriarty is dead,” came Mycroft’s cold, measured reply. 

“Yes, but it’s him! Can’t you see?” 

“I’ll be right there.” Both phone calls ended.

Sherlock had been shouting, and the driver was giving him that wary look in the mirror he was all to accustomed to. “Everything alright back there?”

“Just drive, will you? And hurry up!” 

The taxi driver didn’t wait to be paid, just as Sherlock didn’t wait for the car to stop before he leaped out of the car and rushed towards the therapist’s house. The door was ajar. He could hear moaning. He had been too slow. 

Cautiously, Sherlock pushed the living room door and let it swing. “John?” he said. Someone was shivering and convulsing on the floor, hidden, for the moment. One more step and it all swam before Sherlock’s eyes, who was beginning to sway on his feet. He staggered forwards and felt vomit swell in his stomach. No, no, no, he chastised. Soldier today. Taking a breath, he bent down and cupped the back of John’s head, holding it up, uselessly. A bullet had lodged where John’s eye should have been, but Sherlock couldn’t focus. The blood oozed over his hand and downwards, coating his arm and he could smell it and taste it all around. It was as if he were drowning. There was nothing he could do for a wound such as this. He just held John and rocked him, until Mycroft walked in. “Call an ambulance!” he yelled. 

Of the time immediately after that, it must be said, Sherlock couldn’t remember very much, although he thought about it all the time. There was one thing he was sure of: he had failed the Watsons. In his haze, he hadn’t even thought to check for John’s pulse.

That was why he had to stay and why he couldn’t let himself forget.

***

As usual, Sherlock woke with the noise of the hospital coming into action. He stayed in the exact some position in the chair, only stretching as to create a typical sitting position. He glanced at the clock: nearly ten o’clock. Mrs Hudson would be here soon. They were taking John home, as soon as the doctor said it was alright, and she came to give the update every day at 10:15. Today was the day – Sherlock could feel it. 

Right on cue, in came Mrs Hudson, wearing a skirt that was a certain shade of pink that, along with that ridiculous smile on her face, Sherlock found quite offensive in the morning after such little sleep. “How long have you been here?” she asked, surprised, as she settled herself down in a chair close to him, angled so they could face each other.

“Five minutes,” Sherlock dismissed. 

“I didn’t hear you come in last night.” Sherlock shrugged and averted his gaze. “Come to think of it, I didn’t hear you leave this morning either.” 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realise I had to run everything by you,” he snapped.

“Well, it’s none of my business what you boys get up to. I’m your landlady, dear, not your -” 

“Housekeeper. Yes, I know.” Sherlock managed a warm smile in her direction.

“I just worry about you, that’s all,” she said.

“Thank you.” For a moment, Sherlock looked her right in the eye and they held each other’s gaze. She had seen the very worse of him and helped him get better. He wanted her to know how much he appreciated that, despite his sometimes venomous insults directed at her. The sentiment wasn’t lost. She reached a hand over and squeezed one of his gently. Soldiers today.

***  
John’s POV

He was awake, again. Although, he wouldn’t know the difference if he was. In his experience, it was always better to be awake. Sleep only brought back the nightmares, but thankfully, he had only seen flashes of the dream of Euros and Sherrinford. That was too weird. It was especially weird when Lestrade came and said that Mycroft had “taken care” of her, presumably much like he had in the dream. 

There seemed little point in speculating as nobody seemed willing to share information on her. Was she Sherlock’s sister? Why had she come after John? Quite frankly, John had other things to worry about, like his infected eye that still wouldn’t open, plastered with wet, antibacterial coverings that sting. Over the other eye, a mask was placed to hide the ugliness underneath. 

He must have shifted because a voice called over: “Are you awake, John?” It was Sherlock. John nodded. “Good,” Sherlock hummed. He never pushed or asked stupid questions like “How are you feeling?” so he had come to be a comforting presence to John, just knowing he was there. 

Mrs Hudson was there too, and it was surprising to John that Sherlock actually engaged in small talk with her or Lestrade when they came to visit. It was nice to hear his voice, soft and calm by his bedside, even though John only engaged when directly talked to. There wasn’t much to say, John felt.

Eventually, the doctor came in. A quick examination and – 

“Yes, you can go home today,” the doctor said. 

Home? John thought. 

“Do you have somewhere to go?” 

No, he thought. 

“We’ll sort it, thank you doctor,” Sherlock answered, and he heard the door close. A weight came down on his arm as a chair scraped the floor. “You’ll come home – to Baker Street, so you can get better?” Sherlock said.

John considered. He didn’t want to live in Baker Street again; that part of his life was over long ago, and he wasn’t the same man he was then. But he couldn’t look after Rosie on his own right now (or ever again). Christ, what would she think if she saw him now? He couldn’t be her father. “Alright,” John answered. “And Rosie?”

“She can come too -” Sherlock began. 

“No!” John cried, suddenly frightened. “No, I – She shouldn’t see me like this.”

“Okay, I’m sure Molly will be happy to have her for a while – “ 

Poor Molly, John mused. She and John weren’t even really friends. 

“And I can help out in my flat downstairs,” Mrs Hudson added. “And then I can bring her up for a visit. Wouldn’t that be nice.” 

“Look, I don’t want her to see me right now, is that clear?” he snapped, sitting up. John played with the rounded handle of his new stick (a white cane!). It doesn’t feel like the other one, but he relies on it anyway to stand, feeling an echo of the old phantom pain. Psychosomatic – that’s what Sherlock had called it. He felt pretty psycho right now. He headed in the direction of the door. He was sure this was the way – that’s where the sound of talking always came from. A hand curled softly around his left arm. “It’s this way, John,” Sherlock prompted. He guided him to the right. The contact – he felt like he should try and shirk it off, but he liked it. It was comforting and grounding. Sherlock wasn’t pushy and scolding. He never sounded disappointed. He was just – nice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second chapter as promised. Thank you so much for reading! This one is sort of filling in the gaps. I still have some more exciting ideas but I'm really not sure how often I will post. I'll try not to leave it too long :)  
> A few notes:  
> In case there's any confusion, Sherlock had two separate phone calls with Lestrade and Mycroft but I presented them in that way because I imagine Sherlock's recollection of that time to be all jumbled up, which is understandable.  
> Somniferous = makes you drowsy  
> A white cane is the name of a blind persons walking stick


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rosie comes to visit and the vision slowly returns to John's remaining eye as he and Sherlock grow closer.  
> Mrs Hudson delivers an ultimatum.

POV John

Many weeks since being discharged from the hospital, John sits in front of the bedroom mirror, feeling hollowed out and low despite the fact that his daughter was there, playing with Mrs Hudson and Sherlock, of course. There is laughter in the flat, sounds of his baby giggling and clapping her hands mix with Sherlock’s resonant voice talking nonsense and the exaltations of their landlady. 

During his weeks of total blindness, John’s other senses had unsurprisingly heightened. Hearing, touch, taste, and smell. John had never noticed how strongly 221b Baker Street smelled of home, like late-night deductions and cups of tea, of violin playing and endless adventure. 

Nonetheless, the blurry scenes that now play through his recovering eye are a welcome sight. Now, his mind needed to recover. John needs to find the joy he knows lay within these walls. 

All of a sudden, a loud cry of “Aarrrgh!” sounded from the living room. 

A lopsided smirk tugged at the corner of John’s mouth. The pirate game again. Sherlock was really loving the whole “Uncle Sherlock” thing. So was Rosie, apparently. The uncharacteristic outburst was followed by profuse giggling from a plaintive voice. 

Squinting once again at the mirror in front of him, he let his expression fall. Why could he still not see? It seemed the harder he tried the blurrier what he assumed was his reflection got. Just a mass of sticking-out grey hair and the black of his shirt against the light-coloured wall in the background would hardly pass as vision, would it? 

The door opened. “Hello, John,” came Sherlock’s happy voice. He had taken to announcing his arrival into a room – the considerate bastard. It was harder to get annoyed with him nowadays. Secretly, John wished he could just see the smile he could hear was on Sherlock’s face. In reply, John made a noise that loosely resembled a greeting as he heard Sherlock come closer. 

“You’re never going to see anything with all this hair in your face,” he observed with a hint that hint of affection that either John had never noticed before or which had never been there before. Now standing behind John’s chair, Sherlock picked up the comb on the dresser. “Do you mind if I … ?” 

John waved his hand. Sherlock always asked before he did anything for him, and he had done a lot for him recently. 

“You have your parting this way, don’t you,” Sherlock said, mostly to himself. 

As Sherlock combed through the lengthening strands of John’s grey hair, John closed his one eye, imagining through the feel of the movement how it would look. Hearing the gentle clatter of the comb being placed back on the dresser, he opened his eye again, inwardly pleased to have the blurred grey moved out of his already poor vision, and also because he knew he would have to see Rosie soon and he wanted to be presentable. “Thanks,” he said. 

“Don’t mention it,” Sherlock replied. Then, John felt the absence of Sherlock’s presence behind him as he moved away. When he again spoke, the sound came from the corner of the room. “Now, it really isn’t fun playing pirates with a baby and an old lady. Fortunately, I’ve found the perfect costume for you.” 

Sherlock came back over and knelt in front of him. John turned to accommodate him, as Sherlock reached up and tied something around the back of his head. Eye patch. He realised as he felt the material rest against the irritated scar tissue of his missing eye. Not the medical one but one that was obviously part of the fancy dress costume Sherlock had bought to play with Rosie. 

He smiled and looked down at Sherlock who, for some reason rested a hand on either of the rests of John’s chair. Without squinting, he could see a large band of something around the untucked white shirt and something long protruding from the side. It was the pirate’s belt, complete with some kind of sword or cutlass. Involuntarily, John let out a bark of a laugh. 

“I need a first mate who’s up to the job,” Sherlock said with mirth.

John couldn’t resist. “You really are very soppy these days, Sherlock Holmes.”

“Oh, only for you Watsons,” was the smart reply as Sherlock pushed himself up to stand and offered his hands to help John up. 

“I can stand by myself, you know,” he grumbled, accepting the offer and soon they faced each other.

“I know,” Sherlock said. 

John felt he could really see Sherlock’s face - his expression and every feature, down to the tiny mole above his left eyebrow. Maybe, he didn’t need to see it, he knew what he looked like. Maybe, he just needed to know he was there, by his side as they walked down the corridor and into battle. 

POV Sherlock

It was a short visit, but Sherlock couldn’t shake the feeling that it really had been a success. Hours later and he was sitting in the living room, in his chair this time as opposed to kneeling on the floor as he had done earlier with Rosie. The room had been tidied (courtesy of Mrs Hudson) and he was taking time to drink a cup of tea and assess the situation.  


John was back in his bedroom now, moping most likely. Getting him out of said room was hard, but not impossible as it had been just a few weeks ago. 

John still wouldn't talk about what happened that day with the therapist, although neither had Sherlock, not really, only in formalities with Mycroft and Lestrade. That could wait for another day.

Sherlock never pushed John. Mary had been right. The only person who could save John Watson was himself; he needed to feel like the strong and brave man Sherlock knew him to be. There was little point in coddling him because that would only make him hate himself even more. 

Surely, today’s visit would serve an enormous boost for him. Even with his poor eyesight and even poorer state of mind, he was a natural father, helping to look after Rosie and joining in with Sherlock’s game. (She was crawling around now - they had already missed so much time.)

It was also one step further to having her come to live with them - the Watsons, all under one roof. 

She had gone back to Molly’s now, which Sherlock knew John felt terribly guilty about but there really was no one else. Any attempts to engage with his sister Harry had long since been abandoned and John still refused to have her at Baker Street, even in Mrs Hudson’s flat downstairs. 

But Sherlock had to stick with his plan, to gently ease his friend back into the world. It was a dangerous game. One still had to be careful around John, he still had his pride, and Sherlock – well, he was having a harder time than ever in hiding his emotions. His hands trembled. He really wanted a cigarette. 

“Where are you staring off into the distance to?” Mrs Hudson’s voice interrupted him as she appeared in the room. “New case, is it?” 

No, just a very old one, he thought.

Before Sherlock could launch into a spiel about some non-existent murder in the country which had come to his attention, Mrs Hudson was leaning against the arm of John’s chair and giving him a knowing look. Sherlock held her gaze, intrigued. 

“I know what you were thinking about,” she said, smiling, causing Sherlock’s eyes to widen as he shifted in his seat. “You can’t hide from me, dear. I know you too well at this point.” She paused. “You’re thinking about John aren’t you.” 

He was. And this had brought to the forefront his thoughts of how handsome John had looked today, how handsome he had always been and how Sherlock’s heart skipped a beat as he thought of he, John and Rosie all living together – as a family. After the episode with Culverton Smith and their respective brushes with death, he had come to realise and accept what he wanted, but he knew, deep down that he could never have it. 

“You mustn’t feel guilty, Sherlock,” she assured. “It’s no good bottling up your feelings as you have done all these years. You’ve come along so far recently,” she added wistfully. 

Sherlock feigned confusion and the older lady shook her head. "You're not the only one who can be observant, you know. Anyone with eyes can see how much you care about that man." 

Sherlock's cheeks flashed red and his gaze averted.. “But I couldn’t possibly – “ 

“Now don’t say that. It wouldn’t be taking advantage. And, besides, I can’t handle both of you moping around like this!” Mrs Hudson exclaimed. 

“What would you suggest I do?” Sherlock asked, sheepishly. 

“Tell him. You may be surprised, a life-changing event like he’s been through, it does … change you. And the way you are with that little girl - I didn’t think you had it in you. It’s enough to woo anybody.” 

With that, the landlady stood up and made her way into the kitchen, leaving Sherlock Holmes – speechless. 

“And I won’t be having this kitchen turned into your personal drug lab again!” she shouted from behind the kitchen screen. 

The detective rolled his eyes and scowled, although his hand came to his face and leg started to twitch as he again reassessed his plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry it's been two months since chapter 2! I've had lots of positive feedback from this one so I've decided to stop procrastinating and get on with the story. This one isn't quite so long as the other two but I think I've said everything I wanted to say. 
> 
> I am just unsure how to incorporate Euros because I just didn't like that whole storyline!


End file.
